His Sunday-morning chamber musicians, a ragtag mix of Gun Factory employees, laughed appreciatively when Langner joked, Just to assure any eavesdropping blue noses that we're not complete heathens, let's start with Amazing Grace.' In G.
He sat at his grand piano.
May we please have an A first, sir? asked the cellist, an expert in armor-piercing warheads.
Langner lightly tapped middle A, to which note the strings could tune their instruments. He rolled his eyes in mock impatience as they fiddled with their tuning pegs. Are you gentlemen cooking up one of those new atonal scales?
One more A, if you can spare it, Arthur. A little louder?
Langner tapped middle A harder, again and again. At last the strings were satisfied.
The cellist began the opening notes of Amazing Grace.
At the tenth measure, the violins-a torpedo-propulsion man and a burly steamfitter-took up once was lost. They played through and began to repeat.
Langner raised his big hands over the keys, stepped on the sustain pedal, and lofted a wretch like me on a soaring G chord.
Inside the piano, Yamamoto Kenta's paste of nitrogen iodide had hardened to a volatile dry crust. When Langner fingered the keys, felt hammers descended on G, B, and D strings, causing them to vibrate. Up and down the scale, six more octaves of G, B, and D strings vibrated sympathetically, jolting the nitrogen iodide.
It exploded with a sharp crack that sent a purple cloud pouring from the case and detonated the sack of Cordite. The Cordite blew the piano into a thousand slivers of wood and wire and ivory that riddled Arthur Langner's head and chest, killing him instantly.
Chapter 2
BY 1908, THE VAN DORN DETECTIVE AGENCY MAINTAINED a presence in all American cities of consequence, and its offices reflected the nature of each locality. Headquarters in Chicago had a suite in the palatial Palmer House. Dusty Ogden, Utah, a railroad junction, was served by a rented room decorated with wanted posters. New York's offices were in the sumptuous Knickerbocker Hotel on 42nd Street. And in Washington, D.C., with its valuable proximity to the Department of Justice-a prime source of business-Van Dorn detectives operated from the second floor of the capital city's finest hotel, the new Willard on Pennsylvania Avenue, two blocks from the White House.
Joseph Van Dorn himself kept an office there, a walnut-paneled den bristling with up-to-date devices for riding herd on the transcontinental outfit he commanded. In addition to the agency's private telegraph, he had three candlestick telephones capable of long-distance connections as far west as Chicago, a DeVeau Dictaphone, a self-winding stock ticker, and an electric Kellogg Intercommunicating Telephone. A spy hole let him size up clients and informants in the reception room. Corner windows overlooked the Willard's front and side entrances.
From those windows, a week after Arthur Langner's tragic death at the Naval Gun Factory, Van Dorn watched apprehensively as two women stepped down from a streetcar, hurried across the bustling sidewalk, and disappeared inside the hotel.
The intercommunicating phone rang.
Miss Langner is here, reported the Willard's house detective, a Van Dorn employee.
So I see. He was not looking forward to this visit.
The founder of the Van Dorn Detective Agency was a heavily built, bald-headed man in his forties. He had a strong Roman nose, framed by bristling red whiskers, and the affable manner of a lawyer or a businessman who had earned his fortune early and enjoyed it. Hooded eyes masked a ferocious intelligence; the nation's penitentiaries held many criminals gulled into letting the big gent close enough to clamp on the handcuffs.
Downstairs, the two women riveted male attention as they glided through the Willard's gilt-and-marble lobby. The younger, a petite girl of eighteen or nineteen, was a stylishly dressed redhead with a vivacious gleam in her eyes. Her companion was a tall, raven-haired beauty, somber in the dark cloth of mourning, her hat adorned with the feathers of black terns, her face partially veiled. The redhead was clutching her elbow as if to give her courage.
Once across the lobby, however, Dorothy Langner took charge, urging her companion to sit on a plush couch at the foot of the stairs.
Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?
No thank you, Katherine. I'll be fine from here.
Dorothy Langner gathered her long skirts and swept up the stairs.
Katherine Dee craned her neck to watch Dorothy pause on the landing, turn back her veil, and press her forehead against a cool, polished marble pillar. Then she straightened up, composed herself, and strode down the hall, out of Katherine's sight and into the Van Dorn Detective Agency.
Joseph Van Dorn shot a look through the spy hole. The receptionist was a steady man-he would not command a Van Dorn front desk were he not-but he appeared thunderstruck by the beauty presenting her card, and Van Dorn noted grimly that the Wild Bunch could have stampeded in and left with the furniture without the fellow noticing.
I am Dorothy Langner, she said in a strong, musical voice. I have an appointment with Mr. Joseph Van Dorn.
Van Dorn hurried into the reception room and greeted her solicitously.
Miss Langner, he said, the faintest lilt of Irish in his voice softening the harder tones of Chicago. May I offer my deepest sympathy?
Thank you, Mr. Van Dorn. I appreciate your seeing me.
Van Dorn guided her into his inner sanctum.
Dorothy Langner refused his offer of tea or water and got straight to the point.
The Navy has let out a story that my father killed himself. I want to hire your detective agency to clear his name.
Van Dorn had prepared as much as possible for this difficult interview. There was ample reason to doubt her father's sanity. But his wife-to-be had known Dorothy at Smith College, so he was obliged to hear the poor woman out.
I am of course at your service, but--
The Navy says that he caused the explosion that killed him, but they won't tell me how they know.
I wouldn't
